hought; 'what have
I lost?' Slowly his mind travelled over his investments; he could not
think of any single one that was unsafe. What was it, then, that he had
lost? Struggling on his pillows, he clutched the wine-glass. His lips
touched the wine. 'This isn't the "Heidseck"!' he thought angrily, and
before the reality of that displeasure all the dim vision passed away.
But as he bent to drink, something snapped, and, with a sigh, Swithin
Forsyte died above the bubbles....

When James Forsyte came in again on his way home, the valet, trembling
took his hat and stick.

"How's your master?"

"My master is dead, sir!"

"Dead! He can't be! I left him safe an hour ago."

On the bed Swithin's body was doubled like a sack; his hand still grasped
the glass.

James Forsyte paused. "Swithin!" he said, and with his hand to his ear
he waited for an answer; but none came, and slowly in the glass a last
bubble rose and burst.

December 1900.

To

MY SISTER MABEL EDITH REYNOLDS

THE SILENCE

I

In a car of the Naples express a mining expert was diving into a bag for
papers. The strong sunlight showed the fine wrinkles on his brown face
and the shabbiness of his short, rough beard. A newspaper cutting
slipped from his fingers; he picked it up, thinking: 'How the dickens did
that get in here?' It was from a colonial print of three years back; and
he sat staring, as if in that forlorn slip of yellow paper he had
encountered some ghost from his past.

These were the words he read: "We hope that the setback to civilisation,
the check to commerce and development, in this promising centre of our
colony may be but temporary; and that capital may again come to the
rescue. Where one man was successful, others should surely not fail? We
are convinced that it only needs...." And the last words: "For what can
be sadder than to see the forest spreading its lengthening shadows, like
symbols of defeat, over the untenanted dwellings of men; and where was
once the merry chatter of human voices, to pass by in the silence...."

On an afternoon, thirteen years before, he had been in the city of
London, at one of those emporiums where mining experts perch, before
fresh flights, like sea-gulls on some favourite rock. A clerk said to
him: "Mr. Scorrier, they are asking for you downstairs--Mr. Hemmings of
the New Colliery Company."

Scorrier took up the speaking tube. "Is that you, Mr. Scorrier? I hope
you are